The soldier blinked a couple of times, then nodded.
“Then you should be aware that you are now addressing the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order!” Markwart screamed at him. “With a snap of my fingers I could have you banished and branded! With a word to your King, I could have you declared an outlaw.”
“For what crime?” the man protested.
“For any crime I choose!” Markwart yelled back at him.
Brother Francis entered the room then, Connor Bildeborough right behind him, the nobleman looking somewhat unsettled, though not physically harmed.
“Master Connor!” the soldier said, rising so quickly that his chair toppled behind him.
The Father Abbot rose as well, and moved about the desk, coming to stand right before the obviously intimidated soldier. “Do not forget what I told you,” the old priest said to the man. “With just a word.”
“Now you threaten the soldiers of my uncle’s house?” Connor Bildeborough said. His presence and the forcefulness of his tone bolstered the soldier’s resolve, the man straightening and looking Father Abbot Markwart in the eye.
“Threatening?” Markwart echoed, and that laugh came again, but this time it held a sinister edge. “I do not threaten, foolish young Connor. But I think that it would do you well, would do your uncle well, and would do the soldiers of your uncle’s house well, to understand that these are matters quite beyond their understanding. And interference.
“I am not surprised that a willful young man, so full of pride, such as yourself, would not look past his own importance to comprehend the gravity of our present situation,” Markwart went on. “But it does surprise me that the Baron of Palmaris would act so foolishly as to send an armed contingent against the leaders of the Abellican Order.”
“He thought that those leaders had acted improperly, and dangerously,” Connor stated, working hard to keep from seeming defensive. He had done nothing wrong, after all, and neither had his uncle. If there had been criminal conduct in all of this, it was perpetrated by the old man standing before him.
“He thought… you thought,” Markwart said dismissively. “It seems that all of you make your own judgments, and act upon them as though God Himself blessed you with special vision.”
“You deny that you came and took me?” Connor asked incredulously.
“You were needed,” Markwart replied. “And were you mistreated, Master Bildeborough? Were you tortured?”
The soldier puffed out his chest and clenched his jaw.
“No,” Connor admitted, and the burly man relaxed. “But what of the Chilichunks?” he asked. “Do you deny that you hold them, and that their treatment has not been so kindly?”
“I do not,” Markwart replied. “They have, by their own actions, become enemies of the Church.”
“Rubbish!”
“We shall see,” the Father Abbot replied.
“You mean to take them from Palmaris,” Connor accused.
No answer.
“That I will not allow!”
“You hold jurisdiction in such matters?” the Father Abbot asked sarcastically.
“I speak for my uncle.”
“How pretentious,” Markwart said with a snicker. “And tell me, Master Connor, are we to do battle in the streets of Palmaris, that all the city might learn of the rift between the Church and their Baron?”
Connor hesitated before responding, realizing the potentially disastrous implications. His uncle was held in high regard, but most of the common folk in Palmaris, and in any other city in Honce-the-Bear, truly feared the wrath of the Church. But still, the fate of the Chilichunks was at stake here, and for Connor that was no small matter. “If that is what is necessary,” he said sternly.
Markwart continued to laugh, his agitated trembling hiding the movement as he slipped his hands into a pouch on the sash of his voluminous robes, drawing forth a lodestone. Up came the hand, and a split second later the magnetite shot out to smash the soldier’s helmet on the nose guard. The burly man yelped and grabbed at his face, blood pouring freely from both nostrils, waves of pain rolling over him, driving him down to one knee.
At the same moment, Brother Youseff leaped forward, tightening his hand as though it were a blade and driving it into the kidney of unsuspecting Connor Bildeborough, dropping him to his knees, as well.
“Possess him,” Father Abbot Markwart instructed Brother Francis. “Use his mouth to instruct the soldiers to let us pass.” He turned to Youseff. “The prisoners are ready for transport?”
“Brother Dandelion has all the caravan loaded and readied in the back courtyard,” Youseff replied. “But Abbot Dobrinion, before he went down into the dungeons, set many guards about that yard.”
“They will not battle us,” Markwart assured him.
The soldier groaned and tried to stand as the Father Abbot retrieved the lodestone, but Youseff, the alert watchdog, was right there, launching a series of vicious, snapping blows to the man’s face that laid him low on the floor.
Markwart looked to Brother Francis, who stood staring at Connor but apparently taking no action. “Brother Francis,” the Father Abbot prompted sternly.
“I did get into his thoughts,” Brother Francis explained. “And learned some things which might prove valuable.”
“But…” Markwart prompted, recognizing the hesitant tone.
“But only when he was caught unawares,” Brother Francis admitted. “And only for a second. He is strong of will and readily expelled me, though he knew not the nature of the attack.”
Father Abbot Markwart nodded, then stepped closer to the still-dazed Connor. Out shot the old man’s fist, brutally snapping Connor’s head to the side, and he crumbled to the floor. “Now possess him,” the Father Abbot said impatiently. “It should not prove too difficult!”
“But I will learn nothing when he is in this state,” Brother Francis argued. It was true enough; an unconscious or dazed man might be relatively easily possessed, but of body only, with no invasion of memory or desire. When consciousness returned, the fight for control would begin anew.
“We need nothing more of this one’s mind,” Markwart explained. “We need only his body and his voice.”
“Evil doings,” Brother Braumin whispered to Brother Dellman as the two stood solemnly in the courtyard of St. Precious, surrounded by their brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle, and with the four prisoners close by. Brother Braumin was not surprised by the sudden order to ready the wagons, for he had been watching the Father Abbot and his lackey Francis closely in their interactions with Abbot Dobrinion, and knew their welcome at St. Precious was wearing quite thin.
What did surprise the monk, though, was the presence of armed soldiers at all of the abbey’s gates, a force sent to contain them, he realized, and particularly to contain their prisoners. Whispers among the ranks had spoken of a new captive, a nobleman, though none save Markwart, Brother Francis, and the Father Abbot’s two personal bodyguards had been allowed anywhere near the man. Still, given the appearance and the demeanor of the soldiers, it wasn’t hard to understand that the Father Abbot might have overstepped his bounds here.
“Why have they come?” Brother Dellman whispered back.
“I do not know,” Braumin replied, hot wanting to involve this promising young monk too deeply in the intrigue. Brother Braumin feared that he and his brothers would be leaving, and if the soldiers tried to stop them, Palmaris would see a display of magical devastation heretofore unknown in the city.
What should I do? the gentle Brother Braumin wondered. If the order came from Father Abbot Markwart to battle the soldiers, what course should he follow?
“You seem distressed, brother,” Dellman remarked. “Do you fear that these soldiers will attack us?”
“Exactly the opposite,” Brother Braumin replied in exasperation. He growled and smacked his hand against the wagon. How he wished that Master Jojonah were here to guide him!
“Brother,” Dellman said, putting a hand o
n Braumin’s shoulder to calm him.
Braumin turned to face the younger monk squarely, took him by the shoulders and locked his gaze. “Watch closely the coming events, Brother Dellman,” he bade the man.
Dellman stared at him quizzically.
Braumin Herde sighed and turned away. He wouldn’t openly accuse the Father Abbot to this young man. Not yet. Not until the evidence was overwhelming. Such an accusation, such a declaration that so much of what Dellman thought holy was a lie, might break the man, or send him running to Father Abbot Markwart for comfort.
Then Braumin Herde’s heart would be known, and he, like Master Jojonah, would quickly be neutralized.
The monk knew then what he would do if the order came. He would fight with his brothers, or at least would give the appearance of fighting. He could not reveal his heart, not yet.
“Forgive me, Master Jojonah,” he mumbled under his breath, and then, on impulse, he added, “Forgive me, Brother Avelyn.”
Soon after, the grim-faced guards of Baron Bildeborough stood aside, on orders from the man they had come to rescue, as the caravan from St.-Mere-Abelle rolled out of the abbey’s back gate. The three Chilichunks were bound and gagged in the back of one wagon, with Brother Youseff standing dangerous guard over them, while Brother Dandelion sat atop the back of battered Bradwarden, the centaur’s upper, human torso covered in blankets. The monks had tied Bradwarden close to the wagon in front of him, and brutal Dandelion forced the centaur to bow low and forward, so that nearly all of that telltale human torso was inside the leading wagon.
Father Abbot Markwart and Brother Francis were likewise hidden from sight, the Church leader not wishing to be bothered with common soldiers, and Brother Francis deep in the throes of maintaining his possession of Connor. When the caravan was safely away, moving steadily to the eastern dock area of the city, then turning north, Francis walked Connor’s body back into the abbey and relinquished control, and the man, still dazed from the pounding Markwart had given him, slumped to the floor.
The caravan encountered no resistance as it exited the city altogether, moving through the north, and not the east gate. Markwart turned them east almost immediately, and soon they were running clear of Baron Bildeborough’s domain. Again the monks used their levitating malachite to cross the strong flowing waters of the Masur Delaval, avoiding any possible trouble at the well-guarded ferry.
From the moment he reached the lower dungeons, to find that Bradwarden had been removed by Markwart’s men more than an hour before, Abbot Dobrinion knew that trouble was brewing up above. His first instincts started him running back for the stone stair, crying for guards.
Pragmatic Dobrinion calmed and slowed, though. What could he do? he asked himself honestly. If he even managed to get to the courtyard before the caravan’s departure, would he lead the fight against Markwart’s men?
“Yes, my Abbot!” a young monk, a man barely more than a boy, whom Dobrinion recognized as a newcomer to St. Precious, cried enthusiastically, skidding to a stop right before the tired old abbot. “At your bidding.”
Dobrinion pictured this young man as a smoking husk, a charred corpse left in the wake of a magical fireball. Markwart carried such stones, he knew, and so did Brother Francis. And those two younger men, Youseff and Dandelion, were trained killers, or, as the Church called such assassins, Brothers Justice.
How many dozens of Dobrinion’s flock would be slaughtered this day if he went above and refused to allow Markwart to leave? And even if they proved successful in defeating the monks from St.-Mere-Abelle, then what?
Dalebert Markwart was the Father Abbot of the Abellican Order.
“There is no reason to guard these empty cells,” Dobrinion said quietly to the young monk. “Go and find some rest.”
“I am not weary,” the monk replied, wearing a wide and innocent smile.
“Then rest for me,” Dobrinion said in all seriousness, and he started a long and slow walk up the stone stairs.
CHAPTER 17
Edicts from on High
Elbryan blew a long sigh and looked helplessly to Pony. He knew that Juraviel, too, was watching him, though the elf remained far from the firelight where the leaders of the band had gathered.
“Once Caer Tinella and Landsdown are secured,” Tomas Gingerwart said, obviously trying to placate the adamant ranger, “we will follow your lead to the south, those of us who are not fit to remain and defend our homes, at least.”
Elbryan wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him hard, wanted to yell into his face that even if the two towns were taken, there would likely be few remaining to stand in defense. He wanted to remind Tomas and all the others that if they went after the towns and failed, and the powries then pursued them, it was likely that all would be lost: all the fighters, all the elderly, and all the children. But the ranger kept silent; he had made the argument over and over, had spoken it in every manner he could think of, and every time, it had fallen on deaf ears. How bitter this impotence was for Elbryan, to think that all of his efforts to ensure that the fate that befell his own home and his own family would not be repeated here, might prove to be in vain because of foolish pride. They wanted to save their homes, they claimed, but if there could be no security in a place, how could it be called home?
His frustration now was not lost on one of the men sitting nearby. “Are ye not to argue with him, then?” Belster O’Comely asked.
The ranger looked at his old friend and merely threw up his hands.
“Then you will join us in our fight,” Tomas reasoned, and that notion brought a cheer from the gathering.
“No,” Pony said sternly, and unexpectedly. All eyes, even Elbryan’s, turned to regard her.
“I’ll not go,” the woman said firmly.
Surprised gasps turned to angry whispers.
“I’ve never shied from a fight, you know that,” Pony went on, crossing her arms resolutely. “But to agree to go and do battle for the two towns would only bolster your belief that you are following the correct course. And you are not. I know this, and Nightbird knows it. I am not going to now make the same arguments that you have ignored for the last days, but neither will I fall in line for the slaughter. I wish you well in your folly, but I will remain with the infirm, trying somehow to usher them to safety when the powries roll out of Caer Tinella into the forest, hunting, and with no one to stand against their hordes.”
It seemed to Elbryan that Pony might be exaggerating just a bit, but her strong words prompted many whispered conversations, some angry but others doubting the course of attack. The ranger had thought to go along for the attack, and thought Pony would surely stand outside the town proper, launching devastating magical attacks. Her resolve not to participateand he knew this to be no bluffhad caught him by surprise. As he considered it over the next few seconds, though, he came to understand her point.
“Nor will I join you,” the ranger said, drawing more comments, angry and astonished. “I cannot condone this course, Master Gingerwart. I will remain with Jilseponie and the infirm, and if the powries come out, I, we, will do what we may to hold them at bay and get the infirm to safety.”
Tomas Gingerwart verily trembled as he looked to Belster O’Comely, his expression openly accusatory.
“Reconsider, I beg,” Belster said to Elbryan. “I, too, have seen too much of this war, my friend, and would prefer a course around the powries to Palmaris. But the decision is made, fairly and by vote. The warriors will go after their homes, and we, as allies, have a responsibility to aid in that fight.”
“Even if it is folly?” Pony asked.
“Who is to say?” Belster replied. “Many thought your own attack on the towns to be folly, yet it turned out for the better, by far.”
Elbryan and Pony locked stares, the ranger drawing strength from the resolute woman. Pony had made up her mind and it would not be changed, and so Elbryan, too, decided to stay the course.
“I cannot participate in this
,” he said calmly. “When I went into Caer Tinella, my actions brought no threat to those who could not fight.”
Belster looked to Tomas and shrugged, having no practical argument against that simple logic.
Roger Lockless, looking bedraggled, walked into the camp then. He stared at Elbryan for a long while, and all in attendance, the ranger included, thought he would seize the moment to paint Elbryan as the coward, or as the traitor.
“Nightbird is right,” the young man said suddenly. He stepped past a stunned Elbryan and Pony to address the whole gathering. “I have just returned from Caer Tinella,” he said loudly. “We cannot attack.”
“Roger” Tomas started to protest.
“The powries have reinforced,” Roger went on. “They outnumber us, perhaps two or three to one, and they are entrenched in strong defensible positions. Also, they have great spear-throwing contraptions hidden among the walls. If we attack, even if Nightbird and Pony join with us, we will be slaughtered.”
The grim news quieted the gathering for a while, then inspired many more whispered conversations, though these were neither agitated nor angry, but rather subdued. Gradually, the looks from every man and woman fell onto the shoulders of Tomas Gingerwart.
“Our scouts said nothing of this,” the man explained to Roger.
“Were your scouts, before me, within the town?” Roger replied.
Tomas looked to Belster and to the other leaders of the band for some help, but all of them just shook their heads helplessly.
“If you decide to go to battle, then I, too, will remain with Nightbird and Pony,” Roger finished, stepping back to stand at the ranger’s side.
That was enough, for Tomas and for all the proud and stubborn folk.
“Get us to Palmaris,” Tomas said grudgingly to Elbryan.
“We break camp at first light,” the ranger replied, then looked to Roger, nodding his approval as the gathering dispersed. Roger didn’t return the look with a smile or a nod; he had done what he had to do, and nothing more. Without meeting the ranger’s stare, without a word to either Elbryan or Pony, the young man walked away.
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